


take the cash (i'll take the booze)

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Enemas, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hazing, M/M, Object Insertion, abuse of Alcohol, those last two are related!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: The average American beer is not fit for oral consumption.





	take the cash (i'll take the booze)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the 2013-14 season, I think. If that doesn't make sense, well, liberties were taken. Title from "Crackhead Ted" by FIDLAR.
> 
> Tyson- sorry about ur hand.
> 
> To the people responsible for this- look at what you made me do.
> 
> Final warnings: this is not a how-to guide nor a recommendation. At all. Tyson "consents" to the actions in this fic only because he believes they're a necessary part of being part of the team.

“How does someone make it through the Dub without being able to chug a beer?”

Tyson doesn’t know. The quick burn of whiskey or rum or whatever the guys could scrounge up—other than beer—has always been easier for Tyson to take down. It’d never seem to matter, as long as Tyson was drinking, but now he’s convinced he was robbed of a crucial life skill, something that’s almost definitely easier to take than  _ this. _

“Nothing’s coming out,” someone’s voice—Matt?—says behind him, cool glass twisting and tugging against his asshole.

“There’s no air moving, you gotta—” a finger starts prying in alongside the bottle’s neck, and Tyson just has a moment to be grateful for the Vaseline someone digged out of their pocket before before he can feel the beer pour into him.

Tyson buries his burning face between his arms, so tempted to try and cool it against the bathroom floor’s tiles but not trusting his teammates’ cleanliness enough to risk it.

Fuck, how is this  _ happening? _

Well, he knows how. Rookies drink. Tyson couldn’t. Smiling vets offering an alternative.

When the last of it is inside, the bottle is pulled out, and Tyson topples to one side. He wants to pull up his pants, something to seem more dignified, but his head and his arms and his body feels too heavy to do anything. There are people laughing at him, but, whatever, it’s team. They’ll see him worse, probably, eventually.

He does try to move again when the door opens, the sound of the party beyond its limits seeping in, but it’s clumsy, and he stops when there’s more laughter, hands on his shoulders, a voice saying, “Relax, buddy.”

Tyson groans but listens to the thread of command, carefully settling back on the floor. “Change of the guards?”

“No one should have to spend all night babysitting you,” Gabe agrees. It takes a moment for Tyson’s eyes to focus when he looks up, bronze hair against fluorescent light. Sure enough, everyone else seems to have left. There’s a brown bottle in his hand, and for a moment Tyson assumes that it’s the same one they just finished until the light catches the silver of a fresh lid. 

Tyson drops his head back again, groaning even though the knock against tile only sends a numb tingle through his scalp. “Seriously? I’ve already—” Tyson cuts off, embarrassed, even though Gabe would know. “Isn’t that enough?”

His eyes stay directed at the ceiling, only squeezing them shut when he hears a sharp  _ thwack  _ against the countertop, a cap hitting the ground, and Gabe saying, “We have guys going in the kitchen who are way ahead of you, don’t be a baby.”

“‘A baby,’ jesus christ, I have a seven year old for a captain,” Tyson despairs. Gabe just laughs, even as he settles on the floor next to Tyson. Resigned, Tyson tries to shift back into position, but a hand stops him from rolling all the way over, leaving him flopped awkwardly against the cool linoleum of the bathtub.

From his pocket, Gabe pulls out a nip of vodka that he passes to Tyson. It takes a moment for his fingers to grip the plastic top hard enough to twist it off, but he does, downs it quick order.

“Not something you want to be sober for, eh?” Gabe says, and Tyson just side-eyes him as he swallows hard a few times. “What? You said it yourself, I’m just a fresh-faced child. And it’s not like this has gotten harder in the last couple years.”

“My—bullshit,” Tyson blurts. If Gabe means what he thinks he means… Tyson can’t imagine it. Golden Gabe, laid out on the floor on his rookie night, ass in the air? No way. Impossible. Something so undignified is a physical impossibility for him.

But Gabe has this commiserating look on his face as he says, “Listen, I know you don’t want to go back to Cleveland again—”

“Oh my god,  _ you  _ are not allowed to talk to  _ me  _ about being sent down—”

“It helps, okay?” Gabe interrupts. “Going through with this, it means a lot to the guys. They like seeing the commitment, deference. Just like with everything else.”

Tyson tips his head back. His vision is swimming, and he doesn’t know if it was the short or quicker absorption from the beer. Fuck. “I’m not even a rookie,” he insists, if only so he can think back and say he did.

“I know. But you haven’t been up for this before,” Gabe responds softly, “and it’s the last of it. Just… get this done, and you can move on with your life.”

“You mean I could grow up to be like you someday?” Tyson says, and he hopes it sounds sarcastic, but he has no clue. Any sense of grounding in Colorado has been corroding away as this night crept closer and it became more and more obvious that the whispers weren’t just for freaking out the young guys. Or, rather, the end of it.

Tyson lets Gabe maneuver him onto his back, a different position than before, but, well, if Gabe had been telling the truth earlier, Tyson guesses he’d know what works. Being bent in two, ass up in Gabe’s lab, definitely doesn’t  _ feel  _ better right away, and he groans uncomfortably when something twinges in his stomach. When Gabe glances up at him, all captainly concern, Tyson forces out, “Feel full.”

He watches Gabe glance at the pile of empty bottles starting to overflow out of the trash can; some of them were failures, evidenced by how sticky Tyson’s entire lower body feels, but enough of them weren’t. 

Gabe turns a considering eye back to Tyson, shifts until he has a free hand that can push up Tyson’s shirt, spread out against his stomach. Tyson wouldn’t have guessed it’s distended anymore than his core strength keeps him, but his skin feels tight and Gabe’s hand lingers long enough that he has to wonder, has he seriously been pumped that full?

“Not like this is a new feeling, though,” Gabe says, and Tyson has a moment of genuine confusion before he clarifies. “The way you’ll down a slice of cake the size of your head any time, no matter how large a meal came before it—”

“Oh my god,  _ shut up,” _ Tyson responds automatically. The familiarity makes the words come easy, no need for any type of higher thought at all. “Size of  _ your  _ head, even, credit where credit’s due.”

It’s almost comforting, to be reminded he’s not full like that, but it gives a sharper contrast to how he  _ is _ filled, deeper and unfamiliar. Its mechanics remain mortifying, something Tyson’s reminded of when Gabe’s finger come up to his hole, tugging just lightly, only for a small trickle of the last bottle to drip out, down over is back until it seeps into something, his short or Gabe’s pants. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Tyson squeaks. He can feel his face burn a deeper red, somehow, like the alcohol and the last however long at his teammates’ whim hadn’t done a thorough enough job.

“It’s okay. Hasn’t been that long, huh? ‘S okay,” Gabe murmurs, hands moving back to Tyson’s thighs, pushing them up until his ass is higher up, evened out. It sends another twinge through Tyson, but he bites back any sound this time. Gabe must still know, somehow, because his hands keep moving on Tyson, massaging where he’s started to tighten, gentle over the possible-tautness of his stomach.

Tyson has no way of knowing how much time has passed—not too long, he doesn’t think—before Gabe picks up the bottle he brought in with him, takes a swig, and starts staring down at Tyson considering. 

“There’s a bottle of Vaseline somewhere. Please,” Tyson blurts out. The first couple of times had been hardest, before. He isn’t interested in reliving those, having Gabe leave and come back, or send someone else.

“Yeah, of course,” Gabe says, and he sounds relaxed about this, like it’s something he does every day. Fuck, Tyson doesn’t know his life, maybe it is. It’s a dangerous time to be considering Gabe’s sex life; after all, Tyson realizes belatedly, muted, his dick is as exposed as every other part of him, except for maybe his nipples if Gabe doesn’t push his shirt up any farther.

So, maybe it’s just a bad starting point for Tyson, to have sex on his mind when Gabe returns to petting his hole open, shiny fingers holding shiny glass. His neck and his eyes get tired if he looks down for too long, but Gabe has an intent look on his face. It’s better than the sheer hooliganism that was radiating in the room earlier, Tyson thinks.

Still, it stings a bit when Gabe hooks two fingers into him, twisting them around, coaxing him open once again. Tyson doesn’t know what make of the sensation, Gabe giving it to him, mind too hazy to process it, so he does what he always does, which is open his mouth.

“I thought that, like, people usually used funnels for this. Like, you know, the normal. Chugging. Rig. Apparatus,” he says, fighting to keep his thoughts in order, not to squirm against Gabe scissoring his fingers open.

Tyson can’t raise his head, but it’s like he can here Gabe’s raised eyebrow when he asks, “What kind of shit do people get up to Kelowna?”

“Shit I avoided, obviously,” Tyson mumbles, breath catching when he feels him being held  _ open,  _ cold beer spilling over his ass before the lip of the bottle catches against his hole and Gabe tucks it inside. The ridges at the start always feel bizarre, but the stretch of the neck going in always takes longer, feels more like—

Gabe takes his time finding the right position, pulling the bottle back and forth, working it into Tyson, who tries to ground himself against the tile, coolness seeping in at the crown of his head and through his shirt, fingers digging in against grout-filled valleys. 

Gabe settles the bottle deep before leaning back, saying, “Wow. Gotta say, Tys, you look like a real joke right now.”

At that, Tyson blinks hard, says,  _ “What?” _ even though he knows he heard him. It’s an easy chirp, Tyson gets that, but it’s not something he was expecting at this point, from Gabe.

Still, Gabe sounds like he’s laughing when he continues, “Come on, you have a fucking  _ beer bottle _ sticking out of your ass right now. Not even a good brand, just whatever Ginner picked up on the way over. How did you decide this was the best choice as to how you spend your night?”

Tyson’s voice feels broken as he whispers, “Drinking too fast makes me gag,” and he doesn’t say,  _ I had to, _ because Gabe  _ knows, _ or he should, he  _ just  _ said—  

He feels himself start to push the bottle out, not meaning to, but Gabe grabs it and pushes it back in, not quite harsh but firm. Tyson feels pinned by it, even as Gabe starts to pull it out, too far.

“No—” Tyson starts, but it doesn’t matter. When Gabe pushes back in, the displacement sends lukewarm beer pouring out of Tyson, cascading over the trail left at the start, following the dips between his thighs, wetting his stomach.

“Such a mess, Tyson,” Gabe says, soft, but he doesn’t wait for a response, starts to pull at the bottle again, steadying any attempts by Tyson to  _ move  _ with his free hand. He does it again, and again, beer sloshing all over, and Tyson doesn’t realize how little he understood what’s happening to him until then, unsure if it’s just this bottle or the last one, too, or if it’s all just been in him.

His stomach hurts, his back hurts, his hips and knees hurt, and he is so fucking sore where Gabe keeps working the bottle over, in and out, just trying to coax more out of.  _ Why, _ Tyson doesn’t know, and it all tears at him until he chokes out, “What are you  _ doing?” _

“What are  _ you  _ doing? You’re the one who’s been up here all night,” Gabe responds, then asks, somehow incredulous, “Are you crying?”

“I’m  _ drunk,” _ Tyson sobs, and it’s true, he’s so fucking drunk but he doesn’t feel the usual grounding gut-sickness of it, just lost and heavy and useless. What the fuck is he doing here? What the  _ fuck  _ is he doing here? What the fuck is he doing  _ here? _

Gabe just seems fascinated by it all. He slows his actions with the bottle, just pressing it until where the neck starts to widen into body as he asks, “Do you think I could fit the whole thing in you? Do you think that’s what it’d take to finally plug you up?”

“No,” Tyson whines, but already he can feel the resignation building in him. Gabe could do whatever he wanted to Tyson; he isn’t going anywhere. Nowhere he wants to go, at least.

Hell, maybe that’s what Gabe wanted to hear, because he just says, “I won’t. We’re just going to sit here a little while, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

And so they do. The pressure against Tyson’s hole stays constant but consistent, not pushing deeper or drawing back, and neither of them say anything for so long that Tyson almost lets himself pass out right there on the floor, but a part of thinks he might die if he does, so he doesn’t.

Eventually, Gabe withdraws the bottle, and Tyson clenches hard in its absence. Gabe laughs, but it’s soft, now, and he runs an almost fond hand down Tyson’s ass one last time before he stands. He pulls Tyson up with him a moment later. They’re both a mess, wet and disgusting, and Tyson feels like his own legs don’t exist beneath him. 

Gabe takes care of both, stripping them bare and guiding Tyson into the tub they’d leaned against earlier, holding him beneath the shower head. It’s there that his hands returned to Tyson’s ass, soapy but still not terrifically innocent, lingering, petting kitten soft against where Tyson is red and open. “You did look pretty though,” Gabe says. “Maybe next time, yeah?”

Tyson doesn’t know. Fuck, he barely feels human.

After raiding their teammate’s closet for a change of clothes, for both of them, Gabe tucks his arms around Tyson and levies him downstairs, where’s he’s greeted with loud, joyous cheers. Someone takes him from Gabe not long after the make it off the bottom step, hugging Tyson close and yelling something Tyson can’t understand but sounds happy. 

It goes on like that for awhile, until everyone is done celebrating his existence and he’s dumped into the same drunken pile as Mackinnon, the  _ actual  _ rookie. They end up pressed far closer together than necessary, but neither of them are in any position to do anything about it. At the very least, it makes it so Tyson can just barely make out Nate’s slurred, “‘s our fuckin’  _ team,  _ man.”

And, yeah, Tyson supposes that’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> [My den of depravity, as NSFW as you'd expect.](http://bauerbump.tumblr.com)


End file.
